


A Gift For Cosette

by midautumnnightdream



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Junior Naturalist Cosette, Romantic hjinks, Romanticism talk, because Valjean sucks enough at self-reflection to have been in relationship and not notice, but also sadder than Christmas fluff has any business being, implied trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9068410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midautumnnightdream/pseuds/midautumnnightdream
Summary: In which Jean Valjean looks for The Perfect Christmas Present and discovers that the real gift was the friends he made along the way. Well, that and Cosette's happiness.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (This story plays pretty fast and lose with French Christmas traditions, especially their relevance to 19th century. Please apply the suspension of disbelief as required.)

The Christmas of 1829 was different.

It had only been a few weeks since they left the convent: long enough to get settled, but not so long as to diminish the wonder in Cosette's eyes, when she watched the change of seasons transform the city. As the days got shorter, the very fabric of Paris seemed to reimagine itself, as if the wood and stonework were trying to keep pace with the trees growing colourful and then bare. The hot smells of smoke and cooking escaped from lit doorways and filled the streets in invisible struggle against what was already turning into a particularly harsh winter. The first light sprinkle of snow in late November, there one morning and all but gone for the next, had been a source of much joy: the next, heavier snowfall culminated in the impromptu snowball fight between the children and the students in Luxembourg. Already in December, Seine had frozen over.

Nevertheless, as the holidays approached, Cosette's gaze turned pensive and thoughtful, and Jean Valjean could make some guesses for the reasons why. Christmas in the convent was solemn business, but not without its small joys. This year's celebrations would mostly be defined by absences. No songs to be rehearsed under the firm guidance of Mother Sainte-Mechtilde (Jean Valjean thought he had heard Cosette humming _Dans cette étable_ under her breath, and once walked in on her trying to pluck the tune on her piano-organ). No stories about holidays at home, shared in low voices as the girls did their best to decorate their dorms with the sparse materials available to them – a small infraction that was always overlooked by the indulgent nuns... No Fauchelevent, setting three baked apples on the table with a toothless smile after the Christmas Day mass, when the Parisian girls were let off to visit their families and Cosette was allowed to slip into the gardener's hut for the afternoon. That shared grief was still fresh in both of their minds, Jean Valjean knew, though they didn't speak of it. And then there was the memory of an older grief, the joy of a doll and newfound family mixed together with the news of Fantine's passing and the silent tragedy of a childhood lost.

(Sometimes Jean Valjean thought about scraped together dinners and the shrieks of delight over toys made out of straw and cocoanut shells, but he ruthlessly suppressed those memories. He would not darken Cosette's joy with the ghosts of his past, when she had plenty of her own)

"Do you have any special wishes for the holidays?" Jean Valjean asked one afternoon, drawing Cosette's attention away from the darkening windows. She looked somewhat startled by the question, frowning in hesitation. _Of course_ , Jean Valjean thought with a slight pang. Everything she knew of family Christmas would be through the experiences of others. But Cosette was not of the kind to be easily confused. "There is the midnight mass, of course and _le réveillon_." She grinned. "Toussaint said I could help prepare the food before we leave for the mass. It's a skill a mistress of the house should have, she says. There is a small market nearby that sells the kind of sausages and cheeses that are common where Toussaint grew up and they have candied fruit and almonds..." her smile turned blissful as she spoke and Jean Valjean bit back a grin. Of course Cosette was still young enough to be distracted by desserts.

"What of the Christmas Day?" he asked "Would you like to go out for dinner after the mass? Maybe on the riverside..." he trailed of, seeing Cosette's expression. "Or would you rather come home?"

Cosette ducked her head. "I'd like to come home and bake some apples," she murmured.

Jean Valjean nodded, trying to ignore the pang in his heart. Cosette had to be cheered up, and he found that the direction this conversation had taken offered an obvious opportunity for it.

"Have you given some thought of what you would like Père Noël to bring you?" He was rewarded with another startled look and a quick laugh. "Oh papa, I don't need presents, I have everything I need." Cosette pressed a kiss on his cheek. "I should get ready for bed."

A man less observant than Jean Valjean might have missed the brief hesitation in her eyes.

He was left alone to contemplate this quite unexpected conundrum. Of course, a girl of fourteen years wouldn't care for a doll that had delighted her at eight. In convent, where the personal possessions of the students were strictly limited, he had resolved the dilemma by gifting Cosette with a variety of sweets that could be kept in the gardener's hut, or sometimes snuck into the dormitory and shared with one's peers. Jean Valjean frowned. He had always made a point of being generous during the holiday season, but the only other personal presents he had made were the fairly straightforward ones to Fauchelevent (a bottle of Argenteuil wine and some good Picardian cheese) and gifts to his various dependents at Monteruil-sur-Mer, who had been reasonably forthcoming about their needs and preferences. He already had a new winter coat stashed away for Toussaint and he knew Cosette was busily embroidering the plain scarf and gloves she had bought for her – whenever she was not working on something she had secreted away into her room and which he was strictly forbidden from seeing. But how did one choose a present for a child growing out of her toys?

In the end he took his question to Toussaint, not without some trepidation: he could not recall the last time he had asked anyone for personal advise. Even Fauchelevent had offered him what he needed to hear without ever realising it, just from the sheer joy of letting his tongue wag. But now there was no Fauchelevent to talk his ears of, and at the very least Toussaint had the grace to conceal her amusement.

"You worry too much, monsieur. The little mademoiselle will love anything you give her, just for the source." The words were meant as a reassurance, no doubt, but as far as advice went, it was less than constructive. Toussaint must have sensed his frustration, for her expression softened a bit. "A new dress or shoes perhaps? Some kind of small trinket, you know she loves those. Or a storybook." Toussaint gave a somewhat helpless shrug, and Jean Valjean remembered belatedly that she had only known Cosette for a few weeks. Strange, she had fitted so seamlessly into their lives as if she had always been there. He thanked her for the advice, for all that he did not feel much wiser for it.

***

It should not be assumed that it was the momentary difficulty that caused Jean Valjean to put the matter of Cosette's gift out of his mind. Indeed, he remained quite concerned and had every intention of giving the issue his full consideration as soon as he had a moment to spare. However, the following days brought with them various mundane troubles hardly fitting for the happiest time of the year, and due to several unfortunate coincidences, it was not until the very morning before Christmas Eve that he could concern himself with this important matter. He escorted Cosette and Toussaint to the marketplace and leaving them cheerfully argue over the cheese selection, set out with a goal in mind

Four hours later, he had settled down in a riverside cafe, cradling a glass of spiced wine in wan hope that the hot beverage might bring back some feeling into his numbed fingers.

He really should have started earlier, he knew, but the complications of moving away from Petit-Picpus and smoothing out the legal issues of establishing his new persona had kept him occupied, and he had never expected the simple task of choosing a gift to be so _difficult_. He had discarded the idea of sartorial gift right away: he was no connoisseur of young female apparel. Cosette had plenty of warm, well made clothes to cover her needs: everything else she would be better equipped to pick out herself. And trinkets? He had filled her rooms with beautiful furniture, fabrics, tapestries and musical instruments. Adding another such trifle would hardly register.

Unbidden the images of whittled horses and cocoanut toys rose again in his consciousness. _Not now_. He grimaced, as the hot liquid spilled over his shaking hands, set the glass down and took several deep breaths. And yet... Toussaint was right: Cosette did love her trifles, and if even his humble attempts at sculpture had been enough to charm youngsters of Faverolles and Montreuil-sur-Mer, surely it wouldn't be so hard find something similar that would appeal to a Parisian girl. A trinket yet, but a _special_ one. A bit of a memorial perhaps, but she need not know that. Not yet.

That Cosette should have the best gift money could buy had never been a question, so it was perhaps no surprise that Jean Valjean soon found himself in a glassware shop far more ostentatious and uncomfortable than he would have been filling to deal with on his own accord, making rather stilted conversation with an immaculately dressed shopkeeper, whose pointed gaze seemed to measure his every move. Even so, he soon found there was one item that stood out to him – a delicate figurine of Lipizzan horse raised in levade, as far removed from his own erstwhile efforts as the real speciman was from a donkey. He made his purchase and left the shop with more than a little relief, despite the sharp gaze still boring into his back, as if expecting him to knock down some of the delicate wares on his way out.

Hardly could Jean Valjean close the door behind him, before he became aware of a potential tragedy. A young well-dressed gentleman, impatient to pass a group of curious idlers gathered by the display window, was stepping in the middle of the road, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the cart approaching from the end of the street. Jean Valjean reacted without thinking, grabbing the heedless dandy from the collar and using his superior weight to let them both fall backwards into the doorway, wincing at both the impact and sharp elbow digging into his solar plexus. The dandy was already pulling himself up, cursing, before Jean Valjean had even regained his breath. "The hell you think you are doing? Crazy old dolt!" The man was all but spitting the words, his attention fixed on the muddy hem of his richly embroidered coat. Jean Valjean stared. Did the young fool not realise that the cart could never halt quickly enough on the icy road, at least not without endangering everyone in vicinity? But the dandy was already marching away, beating against the rumpled coat and muttering curses, even as the very group he had tried to pass was shouting jeers after him.

Jean Valjean ignored them all, suddenly aware of sharp edges digging into the palm still clutching at hispurchase. Carefully he pulled himself upright and unwrapped the paper, only to discover a sad sight: the poor stallion's head had broken clean off the neck, leaving splintered edges and several long cracks running through both pieces. _Oh_. Jean Valjean's shoulder's sagged in oddly intense sense of regret. The sensible thing to do would have been to step back into the shop, both to dispose of the broken pieces and to look for another item, but something about the mournful glass eyes staring back at him made him intensely reluctant to condemn the poor beast into a garbage bin. "Perhaps she would prefer a storybook after all," he muttered, suppressing a wave of guilt. How ridiculous.

"Pardon citizen, are you all right?" The soft voice was nearly enough to cause Jean Valjean to jump. He hadn't noticed anyone approaching, which, considering the eye-searing nature of the stranger's apparel – particularly the purple beret hat sporting a truly magnificent peacock feather – was a minor miracle indeed. "Oh!" the young man exclaimed, his gaze falling at the sad remnants of once proud Lipizzan. "Poor little thing! Of course, such a fall would be enough to break even the most noble of spirits, when caged into so fragile a body." The man's eyes were bright as he reached out a careful finger to stroke the frozen mane. Jean Valjean said nothing, feeling in equal parts baffled and oddly validated. "Such is the fate of the brave and hopeful in this benighted world," the man continued softly, his gaze growing pensive. "To fall, for the betterment of those who can not, or will not understand what they have been spared of, and then to be discarded for daring to break, unless a whim of sentiment offers them another chance at future."

Jean Valjean's throat was suddenly very dry. "Providence," he corrected, not asking himself why.

"Perhaps," the other allowed, tearing his thoughtful gaze from the horse to look at Jean Valjean. "Will the providence intervene on the behalf of this poor beast?"

"If you want him, he is yours," Jean Valjean answered. "I believe you..." he hesitated "have a good understanding of his soul." He cleared his throat, feeling extremely foolish.

The young man's smile was reverent as he accepted the broken pieces with a care that would have made an archeologist proud.

"If you are looking for a storybook," he added, suddenly seeming a bit shy. "May I suggest Hoffmann’s _The Night Pieces_? It is a collection of short stories that I have found very interesting. There is a strong fairy tale like quality to those stories – the Germans are much ahead of us in transforming the artistic conventions – of course, they do not have to put up with the Académie." the stranger trailed off, sheepish. "I'm rambling. Forgive me. But I hope you find what you are looking for. Merry Christmas!" He made his way back to the laughing group. Jean Valjean stared after him, too stunned from the speed of events following each other and the sudden turns in conversations to respond in time.

Perhaps the odd young man had made a good suggestion after all, he mused, making his way towards his favoured bookshop at rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève. Cosette had enjoyed the fairy tales Fauchelevent used to regale her with and she did love German music. Such a gift might hold more personal connection to her than a lovely echo of toys once made for other children.

***

The bookshop, just like the rest of the city, was strangely crowded, or at least so it seemed to Jean Valjean. This was the first Christmas he had spent out and about in Paris and unlike Montreuil-sur-Mer, this busy metropolis seemed to only grow busier upon important holidays. He shifted his way towards the counter to make his request, careful to avoid elbowing anyone – even if they didn't show him the same courtesy. It was not until he had made his way back to the street that he had a chance to give his prize a second glance. Feeling a need to rest a moment before making his way home, he opened the book at random – and blinked. He leafed back to the beginning of the story and scanned through a few pages. _God be merciful_. Was that really what the kids liked these days? Surely not Cosette? Granted, the fairy tales could be rather macabre, but as far as he was aware, most depictions of Sandman _didn't_ involve him gouging out the eyes of naughty children to feed his own offspring.

"Pardon me, citizen." Jean Valjean blinked at being addressed thus for the second time in as many hours, and quickly closed the book, eager to avoid another gift being damaged in unexpected mishap. The speaker – a round-faced cheerful looking fellow – had clearly just exited from the same bookshop he had visited, the fact made evident by a precarious looking pile clutched against his chest by one hand, as he tried to use the other one to adjust a somewhat ruffled-looking hat, hampered by several packages tied into a bundle. "Could you please hold those for a moment while I sort myself out?"

Jean Valjean carefully accepted the pile of books – and not a moment too soon, for the last one barely avoided an unfortunate descent into half-frozen slush. The young man managed to clasp it against his coat and placed it on top of the pile in Jean Valjean's hands with a smile that was equal parts sheepish and grateful.

"Much appreciated, citizen. You might see I am running a bit late – my friends might denounce it as procrastination, but finding the perfect gifts is no easy matter."

Jean Valjean nodded absently, his attention snagged by the title. “ _Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_ ,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

The stranger nodded cheerfully, having managed to regain some control of both his haberdashery and his bearings. "A gift for a friend with affinity for flowers. Another friend of mine is acquainted with the author – one father Mabeuf – so it works out nicely: I get to support a good old fellow, and offer a gift good enough to make my friend forgive me for _not_ using my acquaintances in haberdashery to supply him with a hat more godawful than the feathered horror he is currently wearing."

The later aside might have given Jean Valjean a moment of pause, had he not been absorbed into a revelation brought on by the book title. _Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_. Science. Botany. _Of Course._ How had he not thought about this sooner? Cosette, who had upturned every rock in the garden of rue Plume, who was, by the nature of her education, far more in habit of turning to works of science than fiction.

"Excuse me, monsieur, er, citizen," he interrupted. "Do you suppose I would be able to get this book?"

The stranger blinked. "I don't see why not. Even if they don't have another copy, I know for a fact that the old Royal holds a few in stock. He keeps a bookshop at Porte-Saint-Jacques and is a jolly old fellow ,despite his unfortunate name and friendly with the author."

Jean Valjean thanked the stranger, who accepted back his books, grinning as he took in Jean Valjean's own purchase. "Hoffman? Good choices there, citizen. Very Merry Christmas to you." He hurried away, cheerful and for all his hurried mien, clearly well-supplied with clever and carefully considered gifts. Jean Valjean sighed.

"Hovfmann?" demanded a voice somewhere around his elbow, before materialising into a grimy-looking child wrapped into a ragged scarf. "Him is that German fellow everyone is going on about, who writes stories about eye-gouging and murder and all the interesting stuff?" He peered suspiciously at Jean Valjean, clearly finding something in his expression he did not like. "What?" He demanded, jutting out his chin. "I can read too, you know. And I have friends at theatres, _they_ know all the good stories. You just wait until the new year, we are gonna show the old coots something they won't forget."

"Er, quite," Jean Valjean responded. "So you, er, like the eye-gouging story then?"

The look he earned in response was the one reserved by children everywhere for the adults who are being particularly obtuse. "Of course I do! Who wouldn't? Or well," he considered for a moment. "My sister, when I told her about it said it was horrid, but she is a bit squeamish about odd things sometimes. She liked that Klara who gets almost murdered though, so I'd recon she'd like the rest of the story too when reading it properly." The boy stared at the bookshop wall in contemplation, before giving it a good kick. "But not like we can reserve a table at the university library and order a seven course meal in _nouvelles_ , can we?"

Wordlessly, Jean Valjean offered him the book.

The boy reached out to accept it more on impulse than anything else, with an expression of bafflement that looked utterly foreign on his thin face. Jean Valjean fumbled at his pockets for a moment, pulling out two figs and a pair of glasses, before finding a five frank piece that he slid under the cover like a bookmark. He nodded to the still-stunned boy, before making his way back to the bookshop.

***

Of course the bookshop did not have another copy of _Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_. By this point, Jean Valjean was barely surprised.

The harried-looking bookseller was quick to offer several other works of similar kind, but Jean Valjean's mind was on colored plate illustrations and the mental image of Cosette's fingers tracing those light petals. He thanked the bookseller and left to make his way towards Porte-Saint-Jacques.

The short winter day was quickly approaching to end. Jean Valjean was dimly aware of the lights being lit everywhere around him, the crowds finally thinning out, until he stepped aside from Rue Saint-Jacques and found himself quite alone in the small side-street.

Contemplating the closed shutters of the very bookshop he had been directed to.

Jean Valjean tried the doorhandle, then the knocker, once, then another time, harder, before rapping his knuckles against the shutters for good measure. He glanced up. No hint of light on the upstairs windows, no flutter of movement. There was something desolate, almost forbidding about this silent facade, that even without a close observation gave every indication of being completely deserted.

Jean Valjean stared at the closed shop, not quite able to comprehend it. It was not, as the reader might know, in his nature to turn back from a path once chosen, or to look for compromises. Every decision he had made that day, every impulsive action had led to this deserted impasse at late hour, and not for the first or last time in his life, Jean Valjean found himself face to face with a closed door. He cast a contemplative look at the window pane and almost laughed out loud.

There was a smell of fresh snow in the air, the gathering clouds speeding up already rapid loss of daylight. Jean Valjean leaned into the doorway, staring numbly into the gray evening.

It was a sound of throat being cleared that brought him out of his reverie, a quiet scratchy cough that somehow managed to sound sheepish. Jean Valjean stared at the figure that had appeared in front of him, as it seemed to him, out of thin air. Yet the apparition was anything but unearthly-looking: an old man, quite flustered and not a little fearful, a letter clutched against his chest by a trembling hand, probably in protection against... when had it started to snow?

It took Jean Valjean a moment to realise he was blocking the very doorway the other wished to approach and a sudden, wild hope blossomed in his chest. "Are you the owner?" he demanded urgently, wincing a little as his vehemence made the older man retreat several steps. "Pardon me, I mean no harm. All I want is a book – for a gift, you see... I will pay you double, if you just let me in for a moment. More, if you wish, just name the price and you shall have it, if I have to go back home to bring more money..." he trailed off, realising belatedly his explanation had done nothing to reassure the older man, who had retreated another step and was shaking his head frantically.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm not the owner. Just the old Mabeuf from rue Mésières, near Saint-Sulpice. Old Royal, he is a friend of mine, or at least a long-standing acquaintance... He has gone to visit his sister's family in Belleville, you see. I meant to pass him on my seasonal greetings – and a humble reminder to let me know immediately when he has the almanacs for the next year – but..." A sudden movement from Jean Valjean's part was enough to distract father Mabeuf's gaze from his coat buttons and to glance at his face. Whatever he saw there caused him to lose the thread of conversation and retreat another step. Jean Valjean quickly sat down on the doorstep, least the other be frightened to the point of endangering himself.

"You are monsieur Mabeuf?" he asked, doing his best not to sound too frantic. "Of _Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_?"

The old man straightened up a little, his pride in his book enough to momentarily overrule the more unsettled emotions. "This is my work, yes. Oh," his eyes widened. "Is this what you wanted to buy?"

Jean Valjean nodded, now taking a great deal of care to contain himself. "For my daughter, you see," he said quietly. "I have seen the book, I know she would love it. But at this time of day, I can knock on the doors of every bookshop in Paris and not a single one will let me in."

Father Mabeuf shook his head. "Oh no, you won't find this in the shops. Come with me."

Jean Valjean followed the older man through darkened streets without asking why, feeling not unlike Dante following his guide to the underworld. All the events and disappointments of the day, several hours of anxiety and nagging realization that Cosette must be already waiting for him had consolidated into an exhausted sense of unreality, with one bright spot shining in the future. If father Mabeuf had wished to escort him through all nine circles of hell, Jean Valjean would not have uttered a word of protest.

They made their way past Luxembourg with no attempt of conversation, both of them men who were more comfortable with silence. For Jean Valjean, it seemed as if they were guided by golden light straight ahead – the place Saint-Sulpice, well-lit in early preparation for the midnight mass. Before they could have a proper look at the church, Mabeuf turned left into rue Mésières and led Jean Valjean to a small house surrounded by flowerbeds covered with loving care that would have satisfied even late Fauchelevent, who had been notoriously scrupulous in protection of his plants.

Jean Valjean was quickly introduced to an elderly housekeeper with most peculiar name, who made some scandalised noises about the weather and thoughtlessness old men, before pouring out two mugs of hot tea. Father Mabeuf, in his part, immediately set about searching through bookshelves severely overburdened with a truly magnificent colelction, eventually surfacing with a somewhat rueful expression.

"Would you believe it, these holidays have been so successful that I have no copies left for sale? However, if you don't mind the book being a little bit worse for wear..." he presented a somewhat dog-eared copy of the very book Jean Valjean had been looking for most of the afternoon. "Now this is not the newest edition, but it is the one that I have used for my personal annotations, so all the corrections improvements are marked on the margins. I know this is not as nice as a new book, but it seemed so important to you..." He flushed.

Jean Valjean stared. "Would you really be willing to depart of your own personal copy? Surely this is special for you."

Father Mabeuf raised his chin. "All my books are special to me, but I get new copies soon enough. I wouldn't begrudge this to another lover of both plants and books. Don't pooh-pooh I saw you taking notice of both my garden and my collection. I wish the young lady much joy of this humble volume – perhaps some day she will write one of her own, hmm?"

Jean Valjean was almost on the verge of refusing, but the last words gave him a pause. Then, there was something of the stubborn expression, uncharacteristic as it seemed on this wizened face, combined with Picardian accent and well covered garden that reminded him all too sharply of another, who could convince him to accept every small kindness. He nodded.

***

It was nearly dinnertime, when Jean Valjean finally got back to rue de l'Ouest. He stood on the doorway for a long moment, suddenly indescribably anxious. What if he was wrong? Maybe the book was too specific, too boring for Cosette to enjoy it after all? What if she was so upset with him for leaving her alone for the whole day before Christmas that not even the best gift in the world would be enough to make up for it. What if...

He pushed the door open, immediately overwhelmed by a wave of spicy smells and heat. He could hear a startled exclamation from the kitchen, and then Cosette was running out to greet him, face flushed and hair escaping from the braids. "Father! Where have you been, we were getting worried!"

Jean Valjean could only stare, wordless, as he passed the treasured book to his daughter, heedless of Père Noël and all the traditional formalities of gift giving. But perhaps they had moved past the coins slipped into wooden shoes long ago.

How could he have even for a moment doubted this was worth it? Cosette's eyes were wide as she opened the book with something like reverence, letting her fingers hover over the yellowed pages. It was not the first such expression he had seen today, he suddenly realised, yet it was the one that filled him with indescribable sense of lightness. To walk to-and-fro through half the city, to suffer from cold and worry and frustration – what did it matter? How could any of it matter even a little, when Cosette looked at his gift with such a wonder, setting it carefully aside before jumping into his arms like a little girl she still was.

Eventually she pulled back, grinning at him as she took his big hand into her small one. There was a speck of flour on her nose, Jean Valjean noted, fighting back a smile.

Cosette  smile turned impish, as she  pulled him towards the kitchen. "Come and look what I have made."

* * *

According to [this very useful LM timeline](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B5Nt-fNSPaUyZTE5MTg0OGMtNDRhZS00NTQzLWI2YjEtZWJhZGMzMDEyZDkw/view?ddrp=1&hl=en#), the winter of 1829/1830 was particularly harsh, with Seine freezing over in December. 

[The Sandman](http://www.ux1.eiu.edu/~rlbeebe/sandman.pdf) is a spectacularly trippy short story by E. T. A. Hoffmann, very popular with the Romantics of the era - and small wonder. Credit to @amelancholicharm of tumblr for pointing me in that direction

The Junior Naturalist Cosette headcanon was born - IIRC - in on of the readalong discussions, when it was pointed out that a) girls in the convent didn't get to read much fiction; b) Cosette loved books; and c) there are so many references to her messing around in the garden and looking for worms or bugs. Clearly the obvious conclusion is that she is a buddying natural scientist.

 


End file.
